He snorted. "I know dead, Jamie."
Right. Because he knew me. I decided to let that slide. It had been a long day and a strange night.
It got stranger when the doorbell rang three stories below, pealing somberly through the house like the bells of Westminster Abbey.
I glanced at the clock. "It's almost midnight."
Curt got up and went to the window. "It's not the police. No cars out front."
"Maybe we should ignore it," I said.
The doorbell chiming changed to a pounding knock.
"I don't think so," he said. "We don't want to disturb the neighbors."
He had a point. Since the median age in Ocean Beach was 80, activity stopped for the day around nine. Lights out by eleven. Besides, the neighbors probably had Howard on speed dial. If he heard about suspicious activity, I was pretty sure my vacation would be over, and so would my employment.
We traipsed down the Gone with the Wind staircase. Curt glanced through the sidelight. "This should be good," he muttered.
I took a peek. The man standing there was so Everyman that I could hardly describe him while looking right at him. He had hair, two eyes, one nose, and an oversized thrift store wardrobe of board shorts and a T-shirt that hung on his thin frame like laundry on a clothesline. He had that baked-in leathery look of someone who'd spent too much time in the sun. Once the tan faded, so would the one feature that kept him from blending into the sand.
"Whoever he is, he looks harmless enough," I said.
Curt punched in the alarm code, and the system beeped three times, acknowledging his command.
I wrapped my arms around myself as thunder rumbled a warning.
Curt opened the door.
Up close, the man looked no more interesting. He just stood there being rained on without making a move to come inside or shelter himself. His hair was plastered against his scalp, showing a gold stud in his left ear, which was about as exotic as he got. His parting was sunburned.
"You two was on the beach earlier," he said without preamble
Oh, boy. I opened my mouth, but Curt did a slight headshake, so I closed it again.
"What about it?" Curt asked.
"You found somethin'."
Curt took a subtle sideways step that shielded me. "I didn't catch your name."
"Oh. Yeah. Sorry. People are always tellin' me I got no manners." The man stuck out his hand. His veins were a road map of blue threading beneath the skin. Surprisingly, he wore a wedding ring. "Call me Ernie."
Curt ignored the hand. Ernie didn't offer it to me. I didn't want it anyway.
"I saw youse on the beach before." Youse, the curious plural of "you" unique to South Philly. That wasn't unusual at the Jersey Shore in the summertime, when a lot of city residents headed for either the shore or the Pocono Mountains to escape the wilting heat.
What bothered me more was that there'd been a witness to my shining moment of grace. "I'm not usually that clumsy," I said.
The corner of Curt's mouth twitched.
"Yeah," Ernie said. "I could tell you're a regular ballerina." His attention moved back to Curt. "I figure it was you called the cops. Am I right? And they didn't find nothing."
"There was nothing to find," Curt said.
"Yeah." Ernie took another glance over his shoulder. I didn't see anything out there. Thunder growled like a feral animal. The rain wasn't letting up, but Ernie still wasn't making any moves to shield himself from it. "Thing is," he said, "there was somethin' to find. And I found it."
I glanced at Curt. His expression was firmly set on blank.
"I could let you have it," Ernie went on, "for, say, twenty bucks."
"What is it?" Curt asked levelly.
Ernie scrounged around in his pockets and came up clutching something on a gold chain. He held it between two fingers, as if demonstrating it was this big. The chain dripped between his fingers.
A locket.
Something uneasy curled around my spine. "Can I see that?" I asked him.
He passed it over with obvious reluctance. It wasn't especially heavy, and I wasn't sure it was real gold. It had a lot of fancy filigree on its face and engraved initials on its back. A.H.
Ernie was a grave robber.
"You took this from her," I said, unable to keep the hostility from my voice even if I'd wanted to. And I didn't. What he'd done was despicable.
Ernie managed a convincing "who, me?" expression. "I didn't wanna keep it or nothin'. Ernie don't keep what ain't his."
"No," I said. "He sells it."
"I'd expect that attitude, seein' as how youse live in a place like this," he said, "but twenty bucks is a lot of money to someone like me."
Curt crossed his arms over his chest, watching us. I couldn't tell what he was thinking, but I hoped it involved castration of the parasite at our door.
"Why were you on the beach tonight?" he asked.
Ernie blinked. "I live there. I got a nice little place in the dunes, about a quarter mile up the beach. Don't look like that—it ain't so bad. I got the view without the taxes, and I'm always seein' educatin' things." He swallowed. "Like I said, I could do with a little cash. And I don't want this necklace anyways. Like I said, Ernie don't keep what—"
"You could have given it to the police," Curt told him.
"The cops?" Ernie swiped his forearm under his nose. "Are you kiddin' me? The cops got no interest in someone like me."
My guess was they might have a very strong interest.
"Look if you ain't buyers, I'll move on." He reached for the locket. I pulled it back.
"Why come to us?" I asked. And how. That was something I didn't want to think about. The how meant he'd followed us home, or at least far enough to learn where we were staying. And we hadn't noticed him. Not a reassuring thought.
He looked at me. "Look, you can turn it over to the cops if you want. I just wanted to get a little cash and be on my way."
Curt's voice took on an edge. "Do you know who left that girl on the beach?"
Ernie's eyes grew wary. "No, not the killin' part, no. But the leavin' part, yeah. Might be I know that part. Maybe it's one and the same."
"Who?" Curt's question was harsh.
Ernie shifted from foot to foot. He was wearing orange sneakers with the laces untied. He had surprisingly big feet for a grave robbing ghoul. "I'm thinkin' that kind of thing might be worth another twenty."
Curt's legs were slightly spread. His back was rigid. His arms were at his sides, his hands in loose fists. I'd seen this posture before. It didn't look good for Ernie. The two stared each other down for a long moment before Ernie shrugged and looked away.
"I ain't askin' for the moon here, mister," Ernie muttered. "Cut me a break, will you."
"What happened tonight?" Curt asked sharply. "Who took that girl off the beach?"
When Ernie looked back, he had two bright red spots on his Barcalounger cheeks that made me think of railroad crossing lights in the glare of morning.
"All right, fine," he said peevishly. "I'll tell you. Sasquatch took her."
CHAPTER FIVE
"Sasquatch," I said a little while later, after Ernie had drifted along the gutter back toward the beach with the twenty dollars I'd convinced Curt to hand over. I still thought it had been a disgusting request from Ernie, but I couldn't stand the thought of leaving Annie's locket with him. If it had meant enough to her to wear it, it was important enough to return to her family.
I rubbed my thumb across the A.H. inscription, thinking. I couldn't seem to remember Annie wearing jewelry in school, not even little stud earrings. But then I couldn't honestly say I'd noticed much of what she'd worn.
"Sasquatch." Curt shook his head. "Why not the Easter Bunny? It'd make as much sense."
We were in Howard's immaculate family room, sitting on immaculate furniture, and I couldn't speak for Curt but I felt as dirty as a landfill. I didn't know which was worse: finding Annie's body or the visit from Ernie. They both made me
want to scrub my skin off.
"He was disgusting," I said "but I don't think he was nuts. It must be a nickname for some goon with a lot of hair." Probably back hair. I hated back hair. Back hair was made for gorillas and guys named Rocko.
Curt gave me a Duh look. "So how do we find him?"
I blinked. "You want to find him?"
"I know you plan to look for him. I hope you don't think I'm letting you do it alone."
That was the beauty of Curt. Well, that and the six-pack abs and killer smile.
He gestured toward the locket. "Let me take a look at that thing. It reminds me of something women wore in Victorian times."
"It is a little out of style," I agreed. But what was a little out of style in high school, if Annie had had it that long, became individualism in adulthood.
"Didn't they keep pictures or something inside of them?" Curt turned it over and poked and prodded, and the gold heart separated. A tiny folded paper fell out onto the sofa. He unfolded it. "Looks like a phone number."
I took it from him. Ten digits, starting with 609, which was the area code for extreme southern New Jersey. It was a phone number, all right, but there was no name. "Should we call it?"
"Probably," Curt said. "But let's wait till morning. It's getting late. In the meantime, we need to figure out how to start looking for this Sasquatch."
I refolded the paper and tucked it back into the locket. "You think there's actually a Sasquatch out there?"
"We know there's someone out there," Curt said. "Someone who killed her, and then moved her body before the police got there. We could call him Sasquatch or Joe; we've still got to find him."
I thought about it. "In a couple hours, we'll have a whole beach filled with people, right?"
Curt's mouth twisted. "You think Sasquatch will be sunbathing in a Speedo?"
"God, I hope not." I shuddered. Speedos were a huge no on my Fashion Don'ts list. There wasn't a man alive who could pull off a spandex hankie over his private parts. No offense to the folks at Speedo, but I preferred to leave something to my very active imagination. Imagination beat reality most of the time anyway. Except maybe in Curt's case. I was pretty sure Curt could rock a Speedo. I still didn't want to see it.
"What are you looking at?" he demanded.
I gave an innocent shrug. "Just wondering if you packed your swimsuit." Because it looked like we were about to jump in with both feet.
CHAPTER SIX
TUESDAY
The phone only rang once before someone answered it.
"Annie? What happened?" It was a female voice, and it sounded thin with urgency.
I glanced at Curt. "My name's Jamie Winters," I said. "I found your number in—"
"Annie Hollander's locket," the voice finished. "Where's Annie? Is she with you?"
"No, she—" I stopped, uncertain of how much to say. "How did you know where I found your number?"
"That's not important right now. Hold on." I heard muffled voices in the background, and then she was back. "Meet me on the Atlantic City Boardwalk at noon, outside of Boardwalk Hall. I'll be wearing white." She hung up.
I stared at the phone in my hand for a second before disconnecting.
"That was fast," Curt said.
"And kind of strange," I agreed. "It's like she knows something happened." I tapped the phone against my chin, thinking. "She wants me to meet her on the Boardwalk in AC at noon."
"Well, it's a public place. I think we ought to do it."
I nodded. I thought so, too.
"That still gives us a couple hours," Curt said. "Let's hit the beach and see if Sasquatch is as stupid as his name. Maybe he'll return to the scene of the crime."
* * *
She kept walking by, the girl in the black and white polka dot bikini and the floppy hat, sneaking peeks at Curt, who was wearing cobalt blue swim trunks that were loose fitting but still managed to make me hormonal. Or maybe it was the dark, curly chest hair doing that. He gazed out over the beach through a pair of Oakleys. Scads of women and girls and a couple of seagulls gazed back at him. He didn't seem to notice. I took a good hard look at them, in case I had to kill them later.
Curt was looking for Sasquatch. I was looking, too, but not very hard. I was thinking about the voice on the other end of Annie's phone number. I thought she'd seemed anxious and concerned but not particularly surprised. And she'd immediately assumed it had been Annie calling. Like she'd been expecting it. It gave me an unsettling sense of being one step behind, which wasn't an unfamiliar thing to me.
"What do you think of that guy?" Curt asked, nodding toward a hulking bodybuilder who was managing to stroll down the beach while flexing nearly every muscle in his body.
I shook my head. "No body hair."
"Sasquatch doesn't have to have body hair," Curt pointed out. "Ernie didn't say anything about body hair."
Ernie hadn't said much about anything. I looked back at the bodybuilder. Even his head was shaved. I didn't get a Sasquatch vibe from him. It had been nearly two hours and no sign of anyone remotely Sasquatchian had lumbered past. Just a lot of families with blankets, umbrellas, beach bags, and dozens of kids in tow, a few hardbodies, two surfers, a lifeguard, and Miss Polka Dots. And somewhere out there, up in the dunes, burrowed into the tall grass, was Ernie the Ghoul.
I thought maybe we were going about this wrong. The type of person that would steal a body probably wouldn't be working on his tan twelve hours later. "I think we should be looking somewhere else," I said.
Curt kept watching the beach. "Like where?"
"Somewhere less…wholesome," I said. "Bars, strip clubs, pool halls. That kind of thing."
Very slowly, Curt slid his glasses down his nose a little and stared at me over them. "You want to go to a strip club?"
"I didn't say I wanted to," I said. Miss Polka Dots was making another lap. She seemed bewildered when she noticed Curt was looking at me. Guess she hadn't noticed me before. I was wearing a T-shirt and shorts, and not cute teeny shorts, but knee-length jeans shorts, folded up once at the hem to facilitate tanning my kneecaps. I could be wrong, but the outfit seemed pretty noticeable to me.
"How about the casinos?" I added.
"You've thrown a lot at me here," he said, pushing his sunglasses back into place. "Let me think about it for a second." He started to smile.
"You're thinking about a strip club," I accused him.
"Hey, you brought it up," he said. "But I'm willing to take one for the team."
"I've changed my mind. I don't want to go to a strip club. I never wanted to go to a strip club." My gaze drifted across the beach. Nothing caught my eye. Still no Sasquatch. No Ernie, either, although I wasn't altogether sure I'd be able to see him anyway, what with him being so blend-into-the-crowd ordinary. "Where do burly men go to hang out?"
"Strip clubs," Curt said.
I rolled my eyes. "What about—I don't know—union halls or construction sites?"
"You forgot monster truck rallies and arm wrestling contests."
Miss Polka Dots gave a little shrug and moved on to orbit the lifeguard stand.
I watched a couple of toddlers digging holes in the sand with little plastic shovels, dumping it in plastic pails. It made me think about digging a grave, and I had to look away.
"I can't help but feel like I should know more about Annie," I said. "Then maybe it'll help us figure this all out."
"Hopefully the mystery girl can fill in some blanks," Curt said.
"But will I know what to ask her?" I bit my lip. "What if she wants answers from me? I don't have any answers."
"Yet," Curt said. "You'll get there. You've done it before."
Problem was, I didn't know where to start. I couldn't imagine anyone wanting Annie dead. Because I didn't know anything about her. I only knew high school Annie, and I needed to know the adult.
Curt glanced over at me. "You need to do something."
He knew me too well.
"How about this," he said.
"We do what everyone else does. We Google her."
I couldn't see timid Annie Hollander having a strong social media presence, but I couldn't see her being murdered, either. It was worth a shot.
Five minutes later we were back at the house looking at Annie's Facebook page while I held ice on my sun burnt kneecaps. I was floored by what I saw. Annie had graduated from college in just three years and had worked in the insurance industry in a nearby shore town. She'd had a white poodle named Thor who'd died in 2013 at the age of 14. She'd had a husband named Edward Lanergan, at least until Annie's post from 2014 announced his passing in a tragic explosion.
There was a small picture of Edward Lanergan along with the post. He looked like the type of man Annie would have married: chunky, round-faced, his tie a little too short, his shirt a little too wrinkled, his belly pushing against the buttons. I could easily see him working in a cubicle and always wearing the seat belt in his practical four-door sedan. He'd probably checked the smoke detector batteries twice a year and tested the fire extinguishers monthly. Before he'd been killed.
Annie Hollander Lanergan had been a widow at the time of her death.
A remembered image struck me out of the blue: Annie had worn glasses in school. Huge brown tortoiseshell frames that had overwhelmed her little pointy face. And braces for a year. Sophomore year, if I remembered right. The braces had been gone her junior year, and the glasses gave way to contacts her senior year. Her real life had come after that, just as I'd hoped.
Curt had been reading over my shoulder as I scrolled down. "An explosion, huh."
I shook my head. "What an awful way to go."
"Not sure there's a good way," he said. "Eddie looked like a nice enough guy."
We kept scrolling through pictures Annie had posted. Although there weren't many of her husband, she had clearly loved him. In May of 2013, she'd posted a Happy Birthday, Eddie message with a photo of her gift to him, a wristwatch with a wide leather band engraved with an E and an L to each side of a brilliant blue face. I was no jewelry connoisseur, but I had to admit it was striking. Another post of a cute little house with red shutters and a red front door with a whimsical New Home Sweet Home tag. I couldn't help but think that Annie seemed thoughtful, and hopeful, and happy.
Killer Beach Reads Page 74